Secrets
by mssmithlove
Summary: Uni!lock! Sherlock has a tongue ring and a motorcycle and a secret and John is a mess of curiosity. Need I say more?


****I do not own Sherlock or any of the characters within it. Short AU where John and Sherlock meet at Uni. Sherlock has a tongue ring and a motorcycle and a secret. Need I say more?****

"So," Sally Donovan started with a raised eyebrow. "You date the freak, huh?"

It took everything in John Watson's power not to snap his textbook shut in irritation. He closed his eyes for a moment to compose himself before answering.

It wasn't really the question that got him, seeing as it was the most common one he received since arriving at university the year before, but the answer to it.

"No," he barely managed not to growl. "We're just friends. And he's not a freak."

The scrutinizing look he received from the curly-haired girl tested his patience all the more. "Really," she said flatly. "Don't you live together?"

John huffed an all too loud sigh and threw her an incredulous look. "Yes. He had a two-bedroom flat and I needed somewhere to live. Doesn't mean we're shagging."

"But aren't you gay?"

John pinched his eyes shut. "No." He's bisexual but that wasn't information he was about to hand out to this nosy girl.

"Oh. Well, good on you then," Sally decided, nodding once. "Something off about that bloke. Be careful there."

John's eyes narrowed. "Excuse me?"

Sally shrugged. "He just seems the type to take advantage, doesn't he? He totes around that tongue ring in his mouth and rides that bloody motorcycle. Seriously, what is that? Like he's trying to seduce the world but then turns down all interested parties. Not so kindly, I might add. Probably just takes what he wants when he wants it. Those types are like that. Only want it when it's not being offered. I bet he gets off on the unwilling."

John was about to sputter an indignant defense of his friend because that little statement was so far from the truth he could have screamed. But a small shift of Sally's eyes stopped him short and all his time spent with Sherlock suddenly paid off. "Ah," he said with a nod. "So what awful thing did he tell you about yourself when you asked him out?"

Sally threw him a glare. "That's none of your business," she bit back and John almost laughed. "Besides, I'm glad he did," she sniffed. "I didn't know he was such a freak until then."

John rolled his eyes. That was the common consensus of Sherlock Holmes on campus. John supposed it was a natural reaction to rejection: blame the other person to mask the embarrassment. Sherlock didn't want someone? There must be something wrong with _him_. He _must_ be a freak.

It didn't help that Sherlock was a bit…eccentric. He wasn't exactly kind in his rejection, mostly because he hardly ever realized he was being hit on. It wasn't that he meant to be cruel he was just direct and realistic. "It's four o'clock in the afternoon," Sherlock once wrinkled his brow at Charles Johnson's request to get a coffee together. "Why would I want to have caffeine right now?"

"Well," Charles had said uncomfortably, shuffling his feet. "you could always have tea."

"While you drink coffee? You obviously don't drink tea judging by all the lattes you bring to class which, by the way, make you incredibly obnoxious more often then not. The caffeine makes you babble like an idiot." Sherlock had shrugged as though that were obvious. "Why would I want to go endure more of that when I'm already forced to every other day?"

Charles' face had gone bright red; he'd mumbled 'never mind' and hurried off.

"He was asking you out, you berk," John had said with a nudge of his shoulder to Sherlock's arm. "You could have been a little nicer."

Sherlock had looked genuinely surprised, as he always seemed to be when someone chatted him up. "Really?" Sherlock had asked, glancing in the direction Charles had walked off in with a frown. "But he's an imbecile. Why would he think we'd be a good match?"

John had laughed because really there was no other response to the most gorgeous human being he'd ever laid eyes on not understanding why someone would want to date him.

Everyone had hit on Sherlock that first semester. Everyone. His alluring presence was rather difficult to stay away from, with his messy dark curls and shimmering green eyes and porcelain-like skin, most people falling all over themselves when trying to speak to him. It didn't help that when Sherlock was trying to decipher bumbling idiot speak, he pressed his tongue to his top lip in concentration, revealing the silver bar that pierced the muscle, making the poor bastard who was trying to work up the nerve to request a date stutter even worse, probably imagining all the filthy activities they wished that tongue ring could be doing to them.

Like John had done on so many occasions it was no longer uncommon in his twisted brain.

The professor swept into their History class at that moment and John breathed a sigh of relief that he no longer had to make small talk with Sally, who seemed to think they'd become friends by sitting next to each other in one class. He threw her an insincere smile and turned back as though to pay attention to the professor.

His mind, however, was far from class at that particular moment.

John's eyes glazed over a bit as he went back to analyzing exactly what in the hell was going on with his flatmate lately.

Just a year before, John had sat frozen, watching a dark figure dismount a vintage Triumph Rocket, tug free a head full of silky ringlets from his helmet, lick his lips with glinting steel and glide into the coffee shop John was waiting in to meet a potential flatmate he'd been messaging.

John had almost dropped his tea in his lap as that bomber jacket-clad man had scanned the small shop, laid eyes on him and produced a knowing smile. John bit down hard on his lip, anticipation thrumming in his gut, never one to shy away from approaching or being approached by a potential date, especially one that looked like _that_.

"John Watson?" A smooth baritone had come from that delicate mouth, eyes narrowing shrewdly as if already knowing the answer.

"Y-yes?" John had stammered, unsure how this beautiful creature knew his name, but very much not caring, especially if the next words out of his mouth were going to be 'may I fuck you?'

The man had smirked and stuck out his hand. "Sherlock Holmes."

Hot tea had smarted over his fingers as John started a bit in realization. Sherlock Holmes. Jesus, the man he'd been e-mailing back and forth about the available flat was this ridiculous human being?

"Oh," John had said dumbly, taking the offered hand and doing everything in his power not to shudder as long fingers encompassed his. He had subtly shaken himself, trying to get his hormones under control.

_You're John bloody Watson, _he'd scolded himself_. You don't get flustered around good-looking people. Pull your shit together._

Sherlock had nodded and dropped down in the chair across from him. "How do you feel about the violin?"

The fact that John hadn't fainted in sheer arousal was a bloody miracle in itself. Sherlock rode a motorcycle. Sherlock had a tongue ring. Sherlock played the fucking violin. "S-sorry, what?" he stammered, still reeling, and again mentally kicking himself.

"I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other."

Oh, right. The flat. John had been e-mailing Sherlock for the previous two weeks about the second bedroom he had available hence the meeting at the coffee shop. John had been in the process of moving to London to begin his first year at university.

"Um," John had tried to speak, already deciding right then that there was no way he could live with Sherlock Holmes. Because living with Sherlock Holmes would also mean living with a permanent hard-on and that was not something John could do. And he couldn't very well shag his flatmate. That was an unspoken, unwritten rule of all flat-sharing situations.

Sherlock had cocked his head, running his gaze down John in one fell swoop, pressing the tip of his tongue to the deep bow of his upper lip, silver balled metal protruding out the underside of the muscle, a motion that John would soon find signaled Sherlock was in deducing mode. He nodded once as though to himself then raised his eyes to meet John's. "I've got a meeting with my counselor in twenty minutes."

John had frowned in confusion for a fraction of a second then said, "What are you studying?"

"Chemistry," Sherlock had supplied, already reaching for his helmet and rising from his chair. John had batted down the moment of panic he had at the sight of Sherlock leaving, wanting nothing more then to be the center of that piercing stare again. "We'll meet there tomorrow afternoon, say four o'clock?"

John had furrowed his brow. "Where?"

Sherlock had stopped his movements and glanced at John in bemusement. "The flat we've been e-mailing about, John."

John had felt his cheeks burn and he dropped his gaze. "Right," he had murmured. "Wait…wait a second," he'd stammered suddenly and Sherlock froze. "We've only just met and we're going to look at your flat?"

Sherlock had raised an eyebrow. "Problem?"

So many problems John could hardly count them. He chose the most pressing ones that also affected Sherlock. "We don't know anything about each other. I don't even know where we're meeting." John had been rather proud that he'd gotten that out without blurting something terribly awkward like 'and I'd love a good shag from you at some point so maybe living together would be a poor choice?'

Sherlock had blinked and ran another keen eye down John's form. "I know you're a medical student, and captain of the rugby team," he'd said factually. "I know you have close friends living in London but you prefer not to live with any of them, probably because you have hobbies you prefer they don't know about, like the fact that you enjoy writing in your free time. Judging by the lengths you go to keep it a secret, I'd assume its poetry or fictional stories, something the good old rugby boys wouldn't approve of. And I know you're tolerant, so you may be the perfect flatmate for someone like me."

John had gaped at him as Sherlock finished his speech, dropped his eyes and gathered his items, running his tongue over his lips once more, that damn ring taunting John with every swipe. Sherlock had taken off toward the door, pausing to turn back just as he placed his handle on the knob. "I'll see you at four o'clock tomorrow, John," he'd said with a smirk. "The address is 221B Baker Street." He had then dropped a wink, called 'afternoon' to the barista behind the counter and swept out of the coffee shop.

John had done nothing but stare for a good minute, watching as Sherlock mounted his bike and sped off like fucking Batman, before he noticed the barista staring him down. He shook himself and glanced over to the mousey girl grinning at him. "Yeah," she had said, nodding knowingly, "he's always like that."

John had stared at her for a long moment, and then ran his hand through his hair. "Jesus. Really?"

She'd nodded.

John had huffed a laugh. "And how'd I do? From an outside perspective."

The girl's lips had twitched. "Not great."

That girl turned out to be Molly Hooper, another medical student and John's saving grace. Not only was she in several of his classes, but her boyfriend Mike, also a medical student, turned out to be well versed in Sherlock Holmes, apparently having grown up with him.

"He's a brilliant bloke," Mike had told him during one of their many classes after John had already stupidly moved in to the Baker Street flat, convincing himself it was because the flat was perfect and the location ideal, not because of the sexy man that already occupied one of the bedrooms. "Don't let the theatrics fool you."

"I can tell he's brilliant," John had laughed. "But he's a bit…I dunno…"

"Insane?" Molly had supplied, giggling. "Yes, he is. But that's sort of what you learn to like about him."

Mike had nodded. "Yeah, if you learn to understand him a little bit, he's a surprisingly interesting guy."

John had nodded. "No, yeah, I mean I know all that. It's just…"

Mike's eyes had widened. "Oh no."

John had frowned. "What?"

Mike had shaken his head. "John. You can't like Sherlock."

John had frozen for a moment before recovering. "I-I'm not-it's not-"

"You _live_ together," Molly had chimed in, concern written all over her face. "You cannot _like_ Sherlock. Not like that."

"That's true. And besides," Mike had added, "he doesn't date. I've known him since primary school. He's never dated anyone. At all."

John had sputtered an embarrassed denial, but the words of his new friends had made him all the more curious about his new flatmate.

John had been able to get his wits about him within the first month of living at 221B. While Sherlock was still unbearably attractive, and John was still helplessly lusting after him, the constant interaction had eased the sting of it. Plus, it sort of took the fun out of it when he was hyperaware he hadn't a chance in hell.

That point in and of itself was driven home on an almost daily basis, as Sherlock rejected person after person. Mike's warning really wasn't necessary when John received firsthand proof constantly.

At the beginning, after they'd begun spending more time together, John's entire body would stiffen in a fit of jealous rage as another person approached Sherlock, stealing his attention from John and threatening to take him away. But that had subsided when it became clear Sherlock had zero interest in them. In anyone, really.

But somewhere along the line, Sherlock and John had become…friends. Best friends really, though John would never say that to Sherlock, knowing full well the raised eyebrow he'd receive. But they had become quite close. Sherlock was odd at the best of times, but truthfully, John kind of adored it. The boy did this thing where he knew everything about anyone with a cursory glance, calling it the Science of Deduction, having an entire website dedicated to the idea. It's how, he claimed, he knew everything about John the first day they met in the coffee shop. And he hadn't been wrong. Which was even more alarming. And why John believed almost everything Sherlock said about most people.

They spent a lot of time together inside and outside their flat, working on Sherlock's absurd experiments, watching and commenting on crap telly, ordering takeaway on a regular basis. They walked to and from campus together, grabbed coffee together, doing almost everything together, really.

Which made it all the more bizarre when people still hit on Sherlock. According to the rest of the uni students, John and Sherlock were an item, seeing as they were together all the time. A fact John secretly reveled in, hoping if the rumor got out wide enough, he wouldn't have a small panic attack every time someone approached. Although, he denied it when directly asked if they were together, terrified if he didn't and Sherlock found out, their friendship would be over.

What was even more terrifying was the possibility that another person, romantic or not, could get to know Sherlock. The way John had gotten to know him. That another person could possibly learn all the small things that made up Sherlock Holmes. Like the fact that his eyes widened when he came to a realization no one else had yet. The way a small smile played on his lips when he found something amusing. The way his sharp cheekbones tinted pink whenever John complemented his work or his deductions. The way his irises changed color with every different emotion he felt. How gentle and young he truly was while giving off the air of someone much older and much wiser.

He was beautiful. And John had zero interest in sharing him with anyone.

So now, as the History bell rung, John gathered up his things before Sally opened her big mouth again, and took off toward the library, planning a quick study session then a late dinner with Sherlock. He shot off a quick text to his flatmate as he made his way to his favorite study spot.

**Chinese or Thai? –JW**

The reply came fast as usual.

_**Sorry, forgot to tell you I'll be gone this evening. Don't wait up. –SH**_

**You know your curfew is eleven o'clock young man. –JW**

_**Very funny. –SH**_

**Where are you going anyway? –JW**

A reply never came.

John swallowed down the mixed emotions and slowly made his way to the library.

This had become their new norm that John hated very much. Over the past month, Sherlock would sporadically disappear. It was normally later at night, around seven or eight, never notifying John, and not coming home until late hours, although John had attempted to wait up for him the first few times. He'd made it until about one in the morning before he dozed off on the couch, waking with a blanket draped over him and the familiar feeling of a demanding presence nearby.

He'd asked so many times and Sherlock had responded vaguely.

"Come on, tell me!"

"It doesn't concern you, John."

"Please? I worry you know."

"You aren't my mother."

"I'm not? Dammit, I knew I'd gotten mixed up somewhere."

"Well, now I've set you straight, so you can bugger off."

"But I'm dying of curiosity."

"How long?"

"How long have I been dying or how long until I'm dead?"

"The latter."

"Oh, who knows? Probably will be soon though, this secrecy business has been going on for so long. You could save me, you know."

"Well if you're dead by the time I return, I suppose it's been nice knowing you, John."

"Sherlock!"

"Really, I'm certain I couldn't have had a more tolerable flatmate. Replacing you will be hell."

"SHERLOCK!"

"Goodnight John."

And so it went.

John knew what this _looked_ like. It_ looked_ like Sherlock was seeing someone. Secretly dating some unknown person, not telling or introducing them to John, keeping them away from their life at Baker Street.

John absolutely hated it.

He tried to reason with himself. First of all, Sherlock didn't date. Ever. That changing now seemed unlikely. Second of all, Sherlock would tell John. They were good enough friends by now. He told him about his absurd mold experiments. Sherlock would definitely tell him about this, too. Wouldn't he?

John couldn't tell if it hurt more that Sherlock was dating someone or that he didn't deem John worthy enough to tell.

Which was ridiculous. None of that was even proven. Sherlock could be… doing a whole number of things. He could be out at a bar. Or a party. He could be working on a yet unseen experiment. He could have finally broken into a lab and stolen the equipment he'd been needing.

He could be out at a club have a messy snog with some unseen stranger.

He could be currently naked, putting that tongue ring to good use on some lucky man's bod-

_Alright, that's enough._

John's imagination was absolutely getting the best of him. Besides, he didn't even know what Sherlock…was. He could be straight, he could be gay, and he could be fucking nothing at all for how little he dealt with relationships. John had no idea. And the not knowing made his crazed thoughts run wild.

But today, John was letting the curiosity get the better of him. Today, he wasn't standing idly by. Enough was enough. If Sherlock had some lover in secret, John felt like he had a right know. Of course, he really didn't, but too fucking bad. He wasn't going to let this go. It was driving him up the wall, panic and fear and stress all eating at him since this secrecy started. He didn't like it. He didn't like not knowing if, at some point soon, Sherlock would stop being his. He didn't like the possibility that Sherlock could have possibly found someone else to spend time with. He didn't like that Sherlock could have found someone to date, to shag, and to love. Someone that wasn't John. He didn't like the possibility of that _at all._

He fidgeted at the library for an hour or so before wandering back to his flat, attempting to arrive with the appearance that Sherlock's schedule didn't affect him. Of course, it very much did, but he'd never hear the end of it if he let that be known.

Sherlock sat at the kitchen table, bent over a yet unseen item as John came into the flat.

"Hello my mysterious flatmate," John sang as he entered the kitchen, dropping his bag unceremoniously on the counter. "And how are we today?"

Sherlock grunted a non-response, absorbed in his current project. John snorted.

"Ah, I see we've been quite busy," John said conversationally. This, oddly, was one of his favorite parts of the day. Teasing a serious, focused Sherlock was too much fun, the reward being a quirk of the lips or a blush across those sharp, pale cheeks, sometimes even a tiny laugh. That was his favorite.

He peeked over Sherlock's shoulder. "Are those…toes?"

"Mhm," Sherlock replied without looking up.

"Where's the rest of him?"

Sherlock's lips twitched. "The morgue."

"Poor dead sod, couldn't even let him keep his toes?"

"He won't be needing them."

"And you do?"

"It's an experiment."

"One day I'm going to conduct an experiment on your toes and see how you like it."

John grinned in triumph as Sherlock fought down a small smile. "I would love to see you try," he replied.

They settled into familiar banter as John made himself dinner, forgoing the takeaway he didn't want to eat alone. He switched on the telly after Sherlock had sauntered off to his room, reemerging a half an hour later looking perfectly coiffed and perfectly sexy in his usual dark trousers and fitted button down.

"So it's a date you got then?"

Sherlock smirked. "Goodnight John."

"No fair!" John called as he heard a quiet chuckle and a closing of the door at the bottom of the stairs.

John switched off the telly and sat silently for a moment longer. Tonight, he had a plan, and that plan began now.

He crept quietly to the window and peered just over the edge to watch Sherlock pull his helmet on, mount his bike and slowly back out of his spot. He turned the handlebars to the left, but John was already flying down the stairs, prepared to dive into the cab that was waiting for him just around the block. He peeked out from the front door to watch Sherlock pick up speed, then ducked out, racing toward the taxi. He dove in and ordered the cabbie to follow the man on the motorcycle. He tossed a few notes at the driver after receiving an odd look. The cabbie fell silent and did as he was told.

John tapped his knee as anticipation hummed in his body, overshadowing the nerves he felt at the possibility of Sherlock catching him following. A small part of him worried about that while the rest of him vibrated with excitement. _Finally_, he was going to find out what was going on. Finally he was going to _know_.

John blinked through the streetlights, never lifting his eyes from his flatmate's back as they made their way across London, Sherlock's bike roaring as it picked up speed. John had never ridden on Sherlock's motorcycle, although Sherlock had offered several times. John decided it would be rather unsafe to drape his front over Sherlock's back while the man he'd been arse over tits for did the one thing that turned John on even more so then in regular, everyday life. He didn't trust his lower half to behave pressed that close to Sherlock.

"Slow down," John whispered to the cabbie as Sherlock pulled into a car park, realizing there was no reason to be quiet too late. They crept passed the building Sherlock parked in front of and John watched as he made his way inside. "Drop me around the corner," John instructed and paid the cabbie as he followed the directions. He climbed out and made his way back to windowless building, glancing up for the first time to see a dimly lit sign blinking overhead reading **Rick's**.

John's stomach swooped in disappointment. So Sherlock must have had a date. The nondescript building and name screamed lounge or club, the lack of windows being the dead giveaway. He watched as two gentlemen made their way to the front door Sherlock had disappeared through only a few minutes ago, dressed in dressy trousers and recently pressed button-downs. Like date attire.

Sherlock must be on a date.

John bit down on the inside of his cheek, panic surging through him. He wanted to go in so badly. He wanted to see exactly who Sherlock was seeing, what kind of place they were together in. He wanted to know why it wasn't him Sherlock had brought here, why Sherlock was even seeing someone else, why in the hell he wasn't good enough for Sherlock Holmes.

Of course, he already knew the answer to that. Because in his opinion, no one was good enough for Sherlock Holmes.

That last thought was the one that propelled him through the door.

John's eyes had to adjust quickly as he was met with dim lighting and quiet murmuring that could be heard just beyond where he could see, soft music flowing through speakers overhead. He walked down several steps into what looked like a small, dark room, finding a woman standing at a podium in front of a maroon curtain.

"Good evening sir," she said with a bob of her head. "Do you have a reservation with us this evening?"

John blinked then shook his head. "Er-no…I-"

"No problem," she said with a smile. "I believe there are still some open spots at the bar. I'd hurry though." She glanced at her watch. "The show is about to start." She pulled open the curtain for John to enter, smiling encouragingly as he walked through the opening.

The atmosphere was soft, with a hint of excitement buzzing through the air. Small tables set for two littered the moderately sized room, candles the only light at each table. Couples were bent over whispering to one another, caressing hands and suppressing giggles. The colors of the room were warm and rich, gold drapery hung over maroon walls, giving of the vibe of elegance and sensuality all at once. A shimmering gold curtain lay closed across what could only be a stage, the small tables angled toward it. John guessed that was where this mysterious show would be taking place. He spotted the bar that lined the far wall and made his way to an empty chair furthest away from the rest of the patrons parked there, attempting to remain unseen in case Sherlock happened to look up from wherever he was.

"What can I get you baby?" A dark-skinned man with blue eyes and long, purple eyelashes blinked a smile at him from behind the bar as John settled into a stool.

"Um, I don't-" he tried to stammer, still eyeing the tables, searching for dark curls and translucent eyes.

"First time here?" the bartender asked with a smirk.

John turned back and nodded, feeling more and more like this all had been a very bad idea.

"Then you're in for a treat, doll," he laughed and set to work on pouring what seemed to be every type of alcohol into a twisted glass. "My specialty for first timers. I call it the Cherry Popper."

John took the fizzing, orange drink and nodded, tugging out his wallet.

"Oh no baby," the man waived. "On the house. You deserve something nice for the first time seeing The Detective."

John furrowed his brow. "Who?"

The bartender laughed again. "Oh, just you wait. Enjoy!" He sashayed off toward the other end of the bar, assisting the rest of the men sitting there.

Men.

All men.

With the exception of the woman at the front, John had only seen men in this establishment. He swept his eyes across the room again finding only men at each table, obviously couples and dates and John couldn't help but smirk. _One mystery solved_, he mused. However, his flatmate was nowhere to be found. John worried at his lip, feeling exposed out in the open like this, knowing if Sherlock spotted him before John could find him, he'd be in deep shit.

"Gentlemen and…gentlemen," a smooth, silky voice flowed out from the speakers and the crowd laughed good-naturedly "Welcome to Rick's Late Night Special starring The Detective."

The crowd broke into applause, a few whoops and whistles being heard loud and clear and the voice over the speakers let out a low, seductive chuckle. "Naughty boys here tonight, I see," the voice crooned and the crowd laughed again. "Don't worry, it's my favorite night here as well. He's got a fabulous show for you tonight so please, sit back, relax and don't get too handsy with your date. We all know what The Detective brings out in us but please, save it for the bedroom. Or the cab. Or the stairs. Or the kitchen even."

Again, the crowd laughed and the voice waited for it to die down. "Now, without further ado, please give a warm welcome to our favorite boy: The Detective."

The lights dimmed to almost blackness as the cheers died down and then fell silent. The entire establishment seemed to be holding their breath, John included, as the darkness engulfed them, lasting for what could only be eternity. John gripped his hands together, suspense threatening to kill him as he waited, having almost forgotten about the reason he was here.

Almost.

A calm, single violin simmered from somewhere on the stage, the single note fluttering at length. The curtains slid open with a quiet whoosh and a soft spotlight flicked on, revealing a lean back of a body, wearing a black tank top. The body was settled on knees folded underneath itself, arse settled on heels, arms hanging loosely at its sides. Another note slid from the unseen violin and the head of the body lifted, revealing silken, inky curls tumbling in waves down the back of the head.

John stopped breathing.

Sherlock Holmes was the man on the stage.

Sherlock Holmes was The Detective.

Another stringed instrument joined the violin and Sherlock's arms swept up over his head, running long, pale fingers through his hair, dragging them down over his shoulders and to his chest that was yet unseen. He rolled his head back and lifted up to his knees, rolling his hips gently. His hands lifted overhead and he dragged one finger down the length of his arm.

John clenched the drink in his hand to the point of almost breaking it as Sherlock turned his head to the crowd for the first time and tossed a saucy smirk with a small shrug over his shoulder, muscles bunching under smooth skin at the movement. John was only comprehending how defined Sherlock's arm muscles were when The Detective rose to his feet and turn to the crowd, running his hands down his black fabric-clad stomach.

The patrons had clearly been stunned into silence until this point because suddenly there was a burst of noise, cheers and hollers ringing out as Sherlock's fingers reached the hem of his shirt.

_No fucking way._

A wave seemed to roll through Sherlock's body as he tugged the tank top up over his extremely defined abs, giving a little shimmy of his hips as he pulled the shirt over his head and dropped it to the floor.

The crowd went absolutely wild as Sherlock continued a slow grind of his body, tossing his head back as if in pure ecstasy, pale skin glimmering in the light.

Sherlock Holmes was a fucking stripper.

John mentally added it to his list that made up the enigma that was Sherlock Holmes, resisting the urge to tug at his suddenly too tight collar, his own body attempting to overheat itself.

He tried to take a sip of his drink to cool himself off, but couldn't find it without looking down and that was something John wasn't willing to do. He couldn't tear his eyes away from Sherlock's gorgeous body writhing on stage. Somewhere in the back of his brain, he realized he wasn't the only one witnessing this erotic dance, but it still felt like he was the only person in this room. Like Sherlock was dancing for him and him alone. And he could barely breathe properly.

Sherlock continued to sway, grind and melt on the stage, dropping to the floor and gyrating across the wood, every movement sensual and smooth, like he was made to move like this. He dropped his hands to his belt buckle and glanced up through his lashes at the audience innocently. The men cheered for him to do it but he shook his head, spinning backward and dropping his hips to floor. He left his trousers on, but it didn't stop the crowd from begging him to take them off. He threw a coy smile as the music came to a stop and his hips gave one more pop as he froze on his knees.

The crowd went bloody crazy and it wasn't until then that John realized it was over. His trance broken, John watched as Sherlock took a bow and smirked to the group of men currently drooling all over him, then walked off stage.

"The Detective, everybody!" The voice over the sound system was back and the crowd broke into cheers again. "Please, feel free to leave him a little something special when you head out this evening. That's our show for tonight gentlemen but please, feel free to stay, have another drink, and enjoy each other before you head home and enjoy each other. Goodnight!"

The men clapped and cheered again, then settled back, seemingly staying for a while, although the atmosphere was thick with sex. Looks were turning predatory and grips were tightening on dates. John wasn't surprised, seeing as what they just watched on stage was so sexual, it should have been illegal. And Sherlock hadn't even gotten totally naked. The whole thing should have been absurd but John's lust drunk brain and hardening cock didn't seem to care, and neither did the rest of the men in the club. The single ones at the bar were throwing glances in John's direction, clearly just as keyed up as he was but he barely noticed.

John was on his feet before he could think, abandoning his untouched drink and taking off toward the door marked Employees Only around the side of the stage. He pushed it open, having no idea why he desperately needed to see Sherlock, needed to tell him he was here, as he ran straight into a large, bald-headed man.

"Employees only, kid," he said gruffly, eyeing John's short stature.

Panic flooded his body and John raced to find an excuse in his recently short-circuited brain. "I-I need to find Sher-The Detective," he quickly edited.

"Yeah, don't we all," the guard responded coolly. "Talent is for looking, not touching. Why don't you head on home before you get yourself in trouble."

The tone was warning but John wasn't thinking clearly. "He's my flatmate, I'm John-"

"You're John Watson?" The guard actually looked surprised and rather pleased all at once. "The John Watson Sherlock is always prattling on about?"

John tamped down on the butterflies threatening to explode from his stomach. _He's talked about me?_ "Yes, that's me," he said, attempting to produce a winning smile.

The guard laughed. "You should have started with that! He's in his dressing room, third door on the right," he tossed his thumb over his shoulder in the direction, then he glanced down at John's empty hands. "What, no flowers for your man?"

John stared for a moment and then the guard laughed. "Kidding!" he said with a smile. "Go on in, he'll be thrilled to see you. He's always so sulky after his performances. We all assumed it was because you weren't here to see them. But you're here now! Go cheer him up for us, would you?"

The guard chuckled as he made his way around John and cleared the path for him. Suddenly terribly nervous, John made his way to the door described and, after a moment of hesitation, knocked.

"Go away," the voice that couldn't be anyone other then Sherlock's replied.

"It's uh-it's John," John said to the door, feeling rather foolish.

There was a beat of silence, then footsteps came quickly to the door and John was suddenly faced with a wide-eyed Sherlock on the other side of the threshold.

"Hi," John said dumbly. He was close enough now to see tiny flecks of glitter dabbed against Sherlock's cheeks and chest, hair glistening with a thin layer of sweat. John swallowed thickly, another pulse of heat pumping through his already too-tight trousers.

The shock in Sherlock's eyes shifted to anger as he raised a sharp eyebrow. "You followed me." It wasn't a question.

John nodded.

Sherlock glared for a moment longer then turned on his heel back into his dressing room. John took it as an unspoken invitation and entered behind him, closing the door neatly.

They sat in silence for a moment as Sherlock dropped to a chair and began busying himself with items on the vanity in front of him. He wore a pair of grey sweatpants, apparently having changed out of his stage trousers, although he still had the tank top on, an unzipped hooded sweatshirt hanging loosely off his shoulders.

"So," John said, the silence unbearable. "You're a stripper?"

Sherlock huffed a sigh down at his vanity. "Exotic dancer."

"Huh?"

John knew he pushed his luck when Sherlock turned to him, eyes narrowed in irritation. "Exotic…Dancer," he said slowly as though John may not understand the words. "Does this place look like a strip club to you? Were people throwing money at me? Did I remove all of my clothing?"

Confusion was getting the better of him, knowing he should be watching his words when Sherlock was this mad, but he couldn't help himself. "I don't get it."

"Of course you don't," Sherlock growled, reaching for his bag as though he had much better things to do then explain anything to stupid John Watson. "Rick's is a homoerotic lounge. It's tailored to gay men to come and have a drink, maybe bring a date and enjoy a little erotic entertainment. My act is one of many."

John cocked his head. "Okay," he said at length, having really no idea what to make of that. "And why do they call you The Detective?"

"Inside joke with the rest of the dancers," Sherlock muttered. "Because of my deductions, I was able to catch an employee stealing from Rick a few weeks back. They started calling me The Detective and I needed a stage name anyway so…" He rolled his hand threw the air to finish the sentence.

John nodded. "Got it."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "So if that's all then, when should I expect you out of our flat by?"

A cold dread ran through John's stomach as he furrowed his brow. "What?"

"Well I assume this has made you uncomfortable," Sherlock said coolly. "I mean, you aren't gay, and as the rugby team captain I'm sure you wouldn't want it getting out that you live with a homosexual. You already live with a freak. I know you don't want it to get worse."

"Sherlock," John breathed, daring to take a step closer. "What are you talking about?"

"You shouldn't have followed me," Sherlock bit back. "You shouldn't- this is just something I do, okay? I enjoy it, it's fun and I do it for me. No one else. It's odd, but most things I do are odd in most people's eyes so I very much don't care. But I know you do. I know you care what people think. I know how quick you are to deny that we're a couple or that you're gay. I know all that okay? So I know this will probably be the last straw for you. It's pretty simple."

"I don't-what?" John said, still stunned. "Sherlock, I don't…this doesn't change the way I feel about you at all. And I don't… that's not- I just wanted to know what you were doing," he finished lamely.

"You shouldn't have followed me," Sherlock said again.

"Well you wouldn't tell me so what choice did I have?"

Sherlock cocked his head. "You could have _not_ followed me."

"But I had to know what you were doing."

"Why?"

"Because I was afraid you were on a date!" John almost yelled.

Sherlock frowned. "What?"

John sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I thought maybe you'd…met someone. Or something."

Sherlock stood silent, so John pressed on.

"And I'm not…I deny being gay because I'm not gay. I'm bi. And I deny we're a couple because I didn't want it to upset you if people thought we were. And…and I just thought maybe you'd found someone and were hiding it from me."

"You were afraid?" Sherlock asked in confusion.

"What?"

"You said you were afraid I was on a date."

John froze. He blinked at Sherlock and then shook his head. "Never mind."

"John," Sherlock murmured. "Why would you be afraid that I was on a date?"

John opened and closed his mouth twice before finally he let out a sigh, realizing he was a man resigned to his fate. "Because…because I like you," he muttered, looking anywhere but Sherlock. "I like you and I know I'm not supposed to and I know we live together…"

Sherlock stayed stock still, staring John down with that penetrative gaze. And somehow, that was what set John off.

"Oh come on," he growled angrily. "I mean, is it really that shocking? Look at you. With your bloody cheekbones and your damn motorcycle and that fucking tongue ring. And now you're a stripper?"

"Erotic dancer," Sherlock muttered.

"Shut up," John said with a furious glare. "Just…just don't sit there like a surprised guppy, staring at me like I'm the insane one, okay? You…you're the most brilliant man I've ever known and my very best friend. I find everything about you interesting and fascinating, even when it's blowing up the kitchen. And I…I know this is probably going to fuck up our living situation and I'm sorry about that. But look at me." He huffed a self-deprecating laugh as he spread his hands to either side of him. "I'm a bloody mess over here. I lost it when I thought you had a date and now I know that it was this that you were doing and I… fuck the way you looked on stage was…breathtaking and I-" John cut himself off, realizing the dangerous territory he was walking into.

"I'm…I'm sorry," he muttered. "I'll just- I'll go. Maybe you can pretend I didn't come here if I leave right now? And we can… we can go back to being friends in a few days? Once, you know, I check in to a mental hospital and all that." He attempted to laugh, but it came it as a choke and he turned to leave, his vision blurring slightly in panic.

As he went to pull open the door, a lean figure towered over him from behind, spidery fingers pressing against the wood to keep it shut. "John," Sherlock breathed in his ear and John shuddered, arousal striking red hot through his veins. "Don't go."

He froze, hand still on the door handle. "I'm sorry Sher-"

"I didn't know," Sherlock murmured, lips pressed to his ear. "I didn't know that's how you felt. I… I thought I was alone in my… feelings for you."

John closed his eyes, praying to god he wasn't about to wake up. "What?" he whispered hoarsely, his body trembling with the closeness of Sherlock and the heat of his words in his ear.

"I like you too, John," His voice was nervous, and so damn sweet John had to reach back and squeeze his hand.

"Really?"

Sherlock huffed a quiet laugh. "You have no idea. It's been a…complicated year."

"Tell me about it," John grinned as Sherlock's arms wrapped around his chest. "God but watching you tonight, Sherlock. I…I couldn't go on like this anymore."

"What do you want, John?" Sherlock asked breathlessly as he turned John in his arms, looking down in his eyes fiercely. "What do you want with me?"

John stared up into those beautiful eyes, now a bit wild and frightened and John brought his hand to Sherlock's cheek. "Everything," he whispered. "I want everything with you, Sherlock. Is… is that alright?"

Sherlock's eyes fluttered closed for a moment, pushing into John's touch. "Yes," he murmured back, pulling John into his arms. "Yes, it's alright."

John grinned against Sherlock's chest, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's waist. "Good."

"Mm," Sherlock's deep baritone rumbled against his chest and heated breath was on his ear again. "So you liked the show?" Sherlock was all but purring.

John stifled a groan. "Yes," he breathed.

That bloody tongue ring was tracing the shell of his ear. "What did you like about it?" Sherlock murmured, running the silver ball over the arched cartilage, before pressing it against John's earlobe.

"That you looked like pure sex on a stick up on that stage," John growled and fisted his fingers in Sherlock's shirt, turning to the side and yanking him down, bringing his lips to John's mouth. He wasted no time prying Sherlock's mouth open and diving his tongue inside, desperately needing to know how that metal tasted.

Sherlock groaned and pressed him back to the door, sealing his body against John's and threading his fingers through the hair on the back of John's head holding him in place. Their tongues battled for dominance, pushing and pulling, gasping and kneading into each other's mouths. John trickled his fingers down Sherlock's tight stomach muscles.

"How are you this bloody fit?" he moaned into Sherlock's mouth.

"Boxing," Sherlock replied and John groaned, hooking his thumbs into Sherlock's sweatpants.

"Can I?" He whispered over Sherlock's lips, just for his own sanity, just to be one hundred percent certain.

Sherlock smirked. "You first," he breathed.

Then he dropped to his knees. John let out a strangled gasp, digging his fingers into those messy ringlets and looking down, blue eyes dilating to black as he took in Sherlock's face so close to his cock. "Sherlock," he breathed as Sherlock flicked open his flies and dragged his jeans and pants to his thighs.

Green eyes locked on John, Sherlock snuck his tongue out and ran that metallic steel over the head of John's cock. John slammed his head back against the door, hardly able to believe one of his filthiest fantasies was currently coming true. "Sh-Sherlock," he breathed, unable to look away for to long, dropping his head back down to watch as his cock disappeared into Sherlock's mouth. "Fu-uck," he groaned, hands still buried deep in Sherlock's hair, riding the motion of Sherlock bobbing up and down. "Jesus, Sherlock." There was no way in hell he was going to last much longer.

Sherlock hummed, dragging his studded tongue up John's length, swirling around the tip and then swallowing right back down. He reached up and cupped John's balls, tugging gently and moaning around John's thickness. John let out a strangled cry.

"Oh-Oh Sherlock. Fuck, Sherlock, I'm gunna come."

Sherlock growled, flicking his gaze up to meet John's and running the silver ball of his tongue ring over the slit of John's cock. John sucked in a sharp intake of breath, and Sherlock took him back in his mouth, hallowing his cheeks and sucking enthusiastically, taking him all the way to the hilt. John tightened his grip as he flooded Sherlock's mouth, unable to stop the small thrusts of his hips as he came hard.

"Christ," John breathed, his body still trembling as he caught his breath. "God, that was fantastic."

"Mm," Sherlock agreed, still on his knees. John glanced down with the intent to pull Sherlock up and return the favor when he realized Sherlock's hand was on his own cock.

John watched, mesmerized as Sherlock tugged long pulls over himself, eyes never leaving John's as his lips parted in a small gasp.

"There you go, love," John crooned, running his fingers threw Sherlock's hair and back down to his neck, tracing his bottom lip with the pad of his thumb. "God, you look so good like this."

Sherlock whimpered, stroking faster as John touched his cheek.

"Will you come for me, Sherlock? Please come. I want to see you come so badly."

Sherlock moaned, nipping at John's thumb on his lip. He fisted himself quickly, body shaking with the movement, and then he was coming down his fingers and spilling onto the floor.

"Mm, that's it," John encouraged, attempting to commit the look on Sherlock's face to memory, biting his lip at the prospect that he would see him like this more often from now on. "That was so perfect. You were perfect for me, Sherlock."

Sherlock gave John a hazy grin from his place on the floor, breathe calming as he came back to himself. "John," he panted, pressing his forehead to John's thigh. "You have…no idea… how long…I've wanted this."

"I think I might," John laughed. "I think I just might. Are you ready to go home?"

Sherlock nodded hastily against John's leg. "Yes, please." He then glanced up, a wicked smile on his face. "I'll give you a lift on my bike."

John groaned low in his throat as his detective chuckled below him.

****I do not own Sherlock or any of the characters within it. Fluff and smut today. Hope you enjoyed it****


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